Obvious
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: There's nothing quite so obvious as love... Particularly if you're as observant as Mycroft. Implied HolmesxWatson.


**Disclaimer:** I own the dialogue, but not the characters.

**Author's Note:** Dear God, what am I doing…? XD;

**Warnings: **My first time writing for this fandom, so probably some OOCness. (Please be gentle!) Implied HolmesxWatson.

**XXX**

**Obvious**

**XXX**

"You're in love."

"…"

"Might I take your silent gawking as a confession?"

"I never gawk."

"As you say. But that is hardly the point, now, is it?"

"My dear brother, whatever would give you the ridiculous idea that I was in love?"

"Oh, Sherlock. Don't insult me; it's perfectly obvious."

"Do tell."

"Why, it's written all over your face, little brother. Your entire body, in fact: there is the smallest of stains upon your left cuff, where you accidentally dribbled gravy. This tells me that you were not wholly paying attention while supping. Unusually clumsy while passing the tureen, perhaps momentarily flustered when your fingers brushed those of the object of your affections. Your cheeks are just the _faintest_ shade pinker than they had been three weeks ago, as well—frequent bouts of blushing, I expect, have tinged them that way. And your silly little smile… so often seen on school girls and boys. You try to hide it behind your newspaper and clues and case notes, but there is a fire in your eyes that even the most intriguing of cases would fail to ignite. It is too warm for the cold calculations that generally animate your features. There is, quite plainly, no other option."

"How interesting that this would be the conclusion you leap to, Mycroft."

"I have not 'leapt' to anything. I have observed the evidence and drawn a fitting conclusion."

"Indeed. If I may, then, inquire further—who, do you believe, has caught my fancy so?"

"Why, brother, if you are going to waste my time pretending to object to my claims, at least ask me a difficult question."

"The answer is that simple?"

"Elementary, my dear Sherlock. You distrust and dislike women. You have few friends of either gender. And the only person that you ever sup with—let alone have deemed worthy of your presence and amity— is the good doctor."

"Perhaps I had different mealtime arrangements, tonight."

"Oh, little brother, these games of 'what if' and 'perhaps' became tiresome when we were lads! But very well, I shall play along. Even if you _had_ changed your customary eating patterns on this fine evening—which you did not, for your stain is the unusual off-orange color of a peculiar cream-based gravy which I know Dr. Watson is particularly fond of— this would not explain the bagged purchase at your feet, the new journal and pot of ink. Now, when Dr. Watson had to temporarily excuse himself from our presence in order to attend to a nearby patient, I noticed that the journal he was carrying in his pocket was only partially-used, as merely half of the pages were wrinkled from ink-stains. Thus, as he had no need to ask you to buy a fresh journal for him, I can only presume that the journal in the bag is intended to be a gift of some kind. And you, dear boy, have never been the kind to give gifts. So he must be very special to you."

"…"

"And these observations are only the tip of the iceberg, as they say; I have barely begun to reference the ways in which your interactions have served to prove my thesis true. In general terms, you have never before been so jovial, so often— a definitive, positive change overcame you once you began boarding with our good friend. But we do not even have to return to that distant day for evidence; instead, I could cite the way you visibly _pouted_ for a full fifteen minutes and forty-two seconds after Dr. Watson left this room. Or I could call attention to the way that your right leg has been suffering from minute spasms since the moment the doctor vanished from your view; a physical representation of your suppressed anxiety and displeasure at this temporary separation, would be my diagnosis. (Ah, yes, a hand on the knee is a reasonable antidote, least 'til the cure returns.) Why, I believe that the only reason you perked up at all is because you recently remembered that you'd nicked the poor man's journal, and have been riffling through it, reminiscing, ever since. And while we're on the subject, how very like you, Sherlock: by taking his old journal, you can bequeath upon him the new one without the embarrassment of having to pretend it was a present. You can simply say you realized that the old journal had gone missing— but too late—and purchased a new one for conveniences' sake. After that, you'd be able to monopolize him for an entire day by dictating fresh notes to replace those that had disappeared."

"My good Mycroft, it _is_ a wonder that you never went into the consultant detective business. You'd have been a far richer man, if you had."

"Oh, riches… A glut of anything is bad for one's health. I have enough to get by, and that is all I need. Monetary rewards hold little interest for me."

"I am sure. If I may be so bold, then, as to inquire what _does_ interest you?"

"Why, my little brother's happiness, of course."

"Of course."

"You _are_ happy, dear Sherlock?"

"I am."

"And you _are_ in love."

"I somehow sense _that_ wasn't a question."

"The truth never is."

"The truth never is what?"

"Ah, Dr. Watson, back again! I trust your patient is well, now? Most excellent. What are you waiting for? Come in, come in! We were just talking about you, Sherlock and I."

"Really? Nothing too horrible, I trust."

"Nothing of the sort, nothing of the sort. In fact, Sherlock was telling me how he's never been happier. And he, of course, has your admirable company and friendship to thank for that."

"Brother. Do not embarrass the good doctor with your ramblings."

"Why, it's not embarrassing at all, Holmes. In fact, I find it quite heartening— sometimes, I hardly know _what_ you think of me. You can be difficult to read, you know. Well, to those of us _normal_ folk, in any case."

"Ah hah ha, have patience, my boy. With a bit of practice, you'll learn to read my brother quite as masterfully as I have. "

"I highly doubt that, Mr. Holmes. After all, you've known him for a lifetime. It would surely take me just as long to even have a prayer…"

"Oh, not to worry. I am sure Sherlock will make things far easier for you than he did for myself."

"And why would he do that?"

"My, my, look at the time! Watson, a client has arranged to meet us for breakfast at six o'clock tomorrow, bright and early! We must return to Baker Street post-haste, lest we turn a good night into a late night. Mycroft, always a pleasure to see you."

"Likewise, little Sherlock. Do be careful on your way home…"

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."

"Until we meet again, Dr. Watson."

"My dear Watson, I'm afraid my hour in this dark room has done horrible things to my eyesight; would it be a terrible burden on you if I might depend upon your arm as I made my way down the steps?"

"Of course not, old boy. Why don't you—oh, goodness, you nearly tripped there! Here, take my hand…"

"Oh, you _are_ a blessing, ol' chap."

"…perfectly, perfectly obvious."

**XXX**


End file.
